


Among The Iridescent Stars

by YourLoyalBlogger



Series: The Stars Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, His Last Vow, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Post Hiatus, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock series 3, The Empty Hearse, sign of three
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:29:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourLoyalBlogger/pseuds/YourLoyalBlogger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following his recovery in Britian and overseas, Sherlock returns to London to resume his life. As he struggles to return his old world he finds himself facing new adversaries, new mysteries and new adventures. Follows Series 3. Sequal to And The Stars Shone Brightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recovery Is No Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK ITS A CHAPTER!
> 
> I'm sorry this has taken so long but I've been going through writers block. Wasn't even able to write my other two fics, despite having the basic plot planned out already. Idk how often this will get updated, I still have a lot of free time on my hands at night to write, but the issues I have with series 3 still remain. How much to include, what to do about Mary? Do I include him getting shot like in HLV, when he was shot in the previous story? I really hate decisions.
> 
> Before I begin, another piece of news, we have a new kitten! She's a tabby mix of some kind, her fur kind of glitters much like a bengal and she's as curious and silly as our previous cat. But so, so affectionate! Her name is Pippa and she's a dear, and a bit of a nerd herself. (loves the doctor who theme and tv in general, loved the hobbit as well).
> 
> I tried to include where he was but I'll have to do it in chapter 2.
> 
> So...I can't promise this is an amazing start, and if anyone wants to help me with it, via me rambling ideas about what could happen, then message me! Otherwise...without further ado, I bring you the first chapter, of part 3 of what I've now fondly called, The Stars Series.

  

* * *

 

_Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night._

_\- Sarah Williams. (The Old Astronomer)_

* * *

Lounging on a red and white folding chair, beneath a large black umbrella, was a tall, skinny detective. Ex-detective in truth, originally he'd been a "dead" detective. Now he was just a person, unemployed, bored and unfortunately ordinary. He hadn't yet returned to his unique occupation and had even debated whether he should. It had only got him trouble, not that there was anything wrong with trouble, but certain kinds were more dangerous than others. And those were the ones it was best to avoid. For his own sake and those of his friends.

The possibly-not-a-detective-anymore, arranged his book to shield most of his face from the harsh sunlight and attempted to drown out the screaming children, the gossip, the shouts of glee from the water. It wasn't an easy task. He grumbled to himself, removing the book and glaring at the scene laid before him. Men in darkly coloured board shorts strutting alone the beach front, trying to impress those not interested, surfers waxing their boards, women in scantily clad swimsuits, children in brightly patterned bathers, screaming at the top of their lungs. Crying because a sibling stepped on their sand castles, or because the salt water got into their eyes.

_People._

_Isn't it hateful?_

"I highly doubt that it is, brother mine."

Sherlock jumped, his head turning to his right to find the chair next to him occupied. He toppled out of his, largely to be dramatic, but frankly no one would blame him. The other chair was now occupied by his brother, in,  _oh it was awful._  Half a suit, bright orange board shorts with a pattern of giraffes and socks with green flip-flops.  _Think happy thoughts, Sherlock, at least he's not wearing crocs._ He closed is eyes and then opened them, no, the hideous sight was still before him. This couldn't be real, could it? The Mycroft he knew would never think to dress this way, certainly not in public, whatever he did in private was his own affair and Sherlock shuddered thinking about it.

"It's a dream, Sherlock."  _Oh thank God. ...Wait.._

"Good. I thought perhaps I'd gone mad."

"Well, there's still time." Mycroft looked at his pocket watch.  _Could you please leave? People might see you and think we're related._

"Piss off."

"Gladly, however I'm here with an important message."

"And what is that?" Sherlock was still covering his eyes.

"Wake up."

"What?!"

_Wait... hold on a second!_

* * *

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" Something poked him hard in the shoulder, something that felt suspiciously like the end of an umbrella. And would not remain one if it didn't stop it's incessant jabbing.

 _Piss off, Mycroft._ Sherlock groaned and removed the book off his face, tempted to through it at his annoying older brother.

"Ah, he wakes. Welcome back brother mine. Enjoying your holiday?" _Shut up and go away._

"Why are you here?"

His brother gestured to one of the larger beach houses behind them, one in cherry red, and slowly headed in that direction. Grumbling, the younger man stood, dusted sand off his rash vest and followed. At least he could be thankful he was wearing a three-piece suit this time, although in this heat that alone was ridiculous.

Although it was larger than some other beach houses, it even had a deck, it was still a small hut. But it fit a tiny kitchen, two arm chairs and a tv, with a partition at the back hiding a single bed and a loo. Nothing but the best for a Holmes. Sighing, Sherlock Holmes collapsed into one of the armchairs, throwing his arm over the side and glaring at his brother. This had all been his idea and so far this "fabulous beach getaway" had been boring, cloudy and plain nauseating. He had no desire to get in the water and he looked out of place in his shirt and shorts when everyone else wore barely anything.

"How long do I have to stay here?"

"At least until the end of the week. Make the most of it, dear brother, swim for a bit at least."  _Otherwise what is the point?_

"With all those people?"

"It will be better for you then staying inside here like a hermit."

_Fine. If I must, I must._

He'd have to suffer for the next five days. At least he didn't have to stay at the beach, he could go out and look at the shops, which was almost as bad, see the sights or stay in his hotel room. Or remain in the beachhouse. None of his options seemed particular interesting or worthwhile. He supposed he could browse some of the stores for cheap souvenirs, or see a movie at the outdoor cinema. He would prefer to just sit inside and read, but his friends had paid a large part of this holiday and he should at least try to enjoy himself. Even if his mind rebelled at stagnation.

"Are you going to answer my previous question, Mycroft? Why are you here?"

"I come bearing gifts." His brother deposited a small pile of envelopes in his hand as well as two packages. "Now if you excuse me, I'm going to try and make some tea. Or something that passes for it."

But Sherlock had stopped listening. His friends had mentioned writing, but he honestly didn't think they would. Surely they'd be busy and how would they even know where he was half the time? It was originally decided that he would visit several places during his convalescence, something he'd objected to. But here were the letters, and there were some parcels, so someone had was tipping them off, and that someone was in this room. Bloody Mycroft can't keep his nose out of anything. Putting the packages aside, Sherlock picked an envelope and ripped it open.

It was from John. A disgustingly cheerful message, asking how he was, had he got a tan yet? Brought anything? No mention of his own life other than gossip. He put it aside, the next one was from Molly, hers was much the same. Milton was fine, and oh she fancied someone she'd met at a party. Why tell him? So long as he wasn't a psychopath he'd be fine. Boring. Lestrade talked about a few cases he was having trouble one, but contained mostly the same as John's. Mrs Hudson's was soppy and embarrassing to read.

"Interesting?" _Please shut up._

"Not really."

"Too bad."

The first parcel was wrapped in cheap green paper with a tacky gold ribbon. Inside was a black towel, bordered in red. A crime scene towel. Interesting, thought Sherlock as he searched for the tag. It turned out to be from Molly, of course it was. He'd brought a towel, blue and yellow but this was more to his taste, not that he'd even swam yet. Nestled inside the towel was a packet of his favourite biscuits.  _I better keep those away from Mycroft,_ he thought, wrapping them back up in the towel. The second parcel was from John. Wrapped in plain brown paper with a sleek red ribbon. It contained The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. Good, Old John. He was nearly finished this boring mystery novel. This should last him for awhile. Plus he still had two Agatha Christie stories in his suitcase.

"How lovely."  _No seriously, can you go away?_

Sherlock huffed, put everything aside and climbed out of his chair. He poured the remaining tea from cheap teapot and took a sip. It was horrible, but it would do. He'd had worse. Mycroft watched him with amusement. His brother was slowly returning, but he would never be the same as before. Even if he hadn't suffered, chasing after Moriarty's web, faking his own death. These things would have always had a lasting effect on his sibling. But perhaps, that wasn't a bad thing after all?

"How long are you staying here?"

"I'll leave tommorow, don't worry. Oh, and before I forget." Mycroft removed a small blue envelope and placed it on the counter.

"Tickets? Where to this time?"

"A delightful little place in Sussex."

Sussex?!


	2. Honeycombed Hideout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is largely text and not much speaking. And it's a bit...blah. Still I hope you enjoy it.

_Hope is the only bee that makes honey without flowers._

* * *

_Boredom. The state of being bored. Dullness, lack of excitement. Lack of anything interesting. Life, right about now. Nothing is duller than travel without a thing to occupy ones mind._ Mycroft's idea of entertainment involved a few interesting files and probably vintage wine. Well, on the surface perhaps. There were certainly a few guilty pleasures that would never see the light of day. Or only seen by the privileged few. Sherlock however had already sped through two movies and was halfway through one of his books before he gave up. Nothing was holding his interest, his thoughts kept straying. Where was he going, really? What was John doing? What will he do after this? Was this to be his life for the next several months? Just constant, boring "holidays"?

And endless questions? If only something interesting would happen. Just once would be nice. Just a little. Perhaps that is too much to ask for.

* * *

The cottage was run down, coming apart at the seams, almost bursting in some areas. Greenery covered almost all of the brickwork. The yard hadn't been mowed in years, the garden overflowing with flowers, bushes and weeds. However, Sherlock reserved his judgement for the inside. After all surely his brother wouldn't have sent him here on purpose? Unless the driver had mixed up the other old cottage houses. The door needed a strong kick before it would open and Sherlock cautiously entered and fumbled for a light switch. Well...if he thought the outside was bad. The inside was terrible but in an entirely different sense.

Someone had a fetish or at least an obsession for bees. And Nineteen-Seventies interior design. The carpet a pattern of yellow and gold brown honeycomb, there were framed pictures of bees and their anatomy. A bouquet of flowers sat on hallway table, inside an old honey pot reminiscent of Winnie -The -Pooh. Sherlock left his bags in the hallway and wandered inside. The living room had a large fireplace, several comfortable armchairs in dark orange. There was at least a modern entertainment system but the seventies design continued into this room as well. And worse, it looked new. He had nothing against bees themselves, marvellous little creatures, but there was a limit.

_B~RING! _B~RING!__

The phone interrupted with an shriek, but he didn't bother to answer. He knew who it was. Sherlock let it go to voicemail while he removed his shoes and socks. The carpet was remarkably soft between his toes.

*Sigh*

Alright, Sherlock. Have it your way. I do hope you enjoy the cottage, despite all appearances it is actually a delightful little place. It's been in the family for years, though it is usually a Bed and breakfast. Currently the outside needs some work before their tourist season. So do make the most of it will you?

*Cough*

On the kitchen table you will find a map and itinerary which you are under no obligation to follow, but it would be wise to at least attempt a few things on the list. The bedroom is upstairs, actually there are two but yours is the only one unlocked. It's small and quaint but I have been assured that it is very comfortable. Well now, brother mine. I must be off, shall I send kind regards to your dear friends? I shall see you in two weeks. Have fun, Sherlock

* * *

The bedroom was indeed small, and in various shades of red and brown. There was only a single bed, a chest of drawers and a desk. As well as one bed side table. At least the carpet wasn't a honeycomb pattern. But a fluffy warm red. unfortunately the bed spread did, in red and white. And the pillows had bees. Well you couldn't have everything. So long as it was comfortable. Sherlock threw a suitcase on the bed and unzipped it. He might as well unpack a few things, if he was going to be here for a few weeks. Not the clothes though, they could stay where they were. A few books, a tablet, toiletries and his pyjamas was all he unpacked. As well as a small framed photo of his friends. He felt ridiculously sappy about it, placing it on the bedside table and turning it away from him.

The pyjamas, and dressing gown they were wrapped in, he put on. Why wear tight suits when one is trying to relax, when you could wear loose and comfortable pyjamas? Though the suits certainly had their appeal. Sherlock yawned and left the bedroom to have a wander and explore his new home. Didn't his brother mention there was something in the kitchen?

Downstairs and through two doors, Sherlock found a averaged sized kitchen that included a small, round wooden table and some chairs. On top of the table sat a large manilla folder. Sherlock sat down and rifled through it's contents.  _  
_

_• There is a market on every sunday, perhaps you could "check it out?" brother mine._

_• There are historic houses and castles available to visit or tour._

_• Do not visit the beehives behind the cottage, Sherlock. You will disturb them._

_• I have identified three spa/sauna and pampering locations on your map. They may do you some good._

_• Do pay attention, Sherlock._

The rest of the list was as yawn inducing as the first few items.

_Boring, boring, unlikely to visit, no, nope, never._

_Why Sussex?_

There were a few things that stood out but it was largely filled with dull activities that would probably appeal to ordinary people and perhaps on the odd occasion, Mycroft. Sherlock left the folder and it's contents strewn across the table and began opening every door in the room. The plates were all shadows of yellow, the mugs had smiling bees and honeycomb. The fridge was packed with his favourite food and a large quantity of milk. And there was a great deal of honey.

He supposed it make a small amount of sense. There were bee hives in the backyard, according to Mycroft's notes. But there was such a thing as going overboard on a theme. Still, the honey would be useful. He did actually quite like honey, it was sticky but sweet. (Sherlock was fairly sure that at one point this had been used as a description for his child self. Though he wasn't so certain about the sweet part.) And it could go with anything and everything. Whether it was wise to do so or not. The ex-detective removed one of the large bottles of milk and a huge tin jar of coffee and dropped them both on the marble counter.

* * *

Two cups of coffee, half a jar of honey and an episode of Castle later, Sherlock found himself testing out the bed. Springy but soft. Would be very good for jumping, if he was so inclined. He got to his feet and stood on the bed, walking over to the window opposite and closing the curtains. He allowed himself a mere second of a jump before pulling back the covers and slipping beneath them, switching of the bee patterned lamp.

His thoughts and worries could wait another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that ok? Do let me know!


	3. Catching Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has been so long coming and the quality isn't great. Truth is my Sherlock muse left me. Which is very sad and it's been difficult to continue. I'm hoping it comes back. I've been writing a lot of Doctor Who related stuff lately, and I'm hoping something turns into a full length fic. I want to write something canon orintated, like an episode or one of the books, that includes things I wish they had in the show. As well as just been silly, fun, heartbreaking etc. With some one off companions. IDK. As well as probably missing scenes, drabbles etc. Starting with Eleven because he's freshest in my mind and I love the adorable idiot.
> 
> Anyway...here it is. If the muse returns, I'll continue. I really want to continue. But I haven't even thought about how to include Magnussan. Or if I even should...If I had someone to bounce ideas off of it would be a great help.
> 
> Enjoy.

It wasn't as if he'd expected a letter. Or even a postcard from him. But something would have been nice. Something so that he knew his friend was doing ok. Mycroft kept them up to date but those updates were few and far between. And they said nothing about what Sherlock had been doing or how he was. Just where he was. Which apparently was Sussex. A boring, quiet area. Where nothing could possibly happen. That kind of place Sherlock would have hated before...everything. Maybe now that wasn't the case anymore. How much had he changed?

How much of the original Sherlock Holmes was still there? And should he be worried? People change all the time, as they grew and learn. As they experience new things. Sometimes the changes are good and other times they are causes for concern. Maybe a changed Sherlock would be a better man, but that wouldn't mean people wouldn't miss the old Sherlock. The best John could hope for was somewhere inbetween the man he was and the man he might be now.

So long as he was happy. That was the most important thing.

* * *

Fatherhood was almost everything Greg thought it would be. There were of course the sleepless nights and the smelly diapers. You'd think someone who was used to grisly crime scenes could handle a poopy diaper but the smell could be overpowering. It was worth it though. Every bit of it. Just to hold his son in his arms, watch him smile, or wave his pudgy little arms. It was what he'd always wanted, a child. And little Rupert was going to grow up knowing he was loved no matter what. Maybe one day he'd even have a little brother or sister to share his life with. Wouldn't that be something?

Rupert gurgled, a little bubble popping on his lips. "Yes quite right lad, it's time for lunch."

Greg lifted his son into his arms and placed him in his mothers. It had been worth it, taking time off work. He didn't have to miss a minute of his sons life. Oh just wait till he crawled or said his first word. With technology these days he wouldn't have to miss a thing. Though he certainly hoped to be there to see or hear it himself.

"Thank you dear. Didn't you have something to do?"

Did he?...Oh, yes! He was supposed to call John.

"Thanks love." He pecked his darling wife on the cheek, ruffled what little hair Rupert had and left the room.

He found the phone on his bedside table and dialed the doctor's number. They'd arranged a meet up at a pub the week before but it had fallen through. His fault, work and babysitting had gotten in the way. He'd taken time off work, but he'd still brought home some of the cold cases. Rupert liked to play with some of the empty manilla folders he brought with him to help organize the mess. He said play, more wave in the air and suck on.  _Good help us when the lad grows teeth._

"Hello?"

"John! Mate, how are you?"

"Good, fine actually. Thinking of changing practices though. There's an opening at the Verner Clinic. I'm thinking of applying to it. Closer to home."

"That's great! You should definetly apply. I never thought you were happy at the one you're at now."

"Yeah...this one looks promising. How about you? How's Rupert?"  _Honestly? Crying right now._

"Brilliant, and so's his mum. Got a hell of a grip too. He's coming along nicely. Listen. I was calling to apologise for missing you at the pub last week. I should've phoned."

John laughed. "Greg, you're a new dad, you don't have to apologise. It was just a drink. It's fine."

"Nevertheless, I feel bad, did you want to catch up this weekend? The tike will be with his grandparents."  _With Anna of course. They'll understand._

"I'd love to. This sunday?"

"Works with me." Greg paused before continuing. "Have you..um..heard from Sherlock at all?"

"No, only what Mycroft tells me. You?"  _Only what Mycroft tells him? He tells him?!_

"No. Wait, Mycroft? What's he told you?"

"He hasn't-? That git. Sherlock's in Sussex right now. Some old cottage thats been done up. He was at a beach before that."

"Sherlock? At a beach? He's as pale as a vampire. Hopefully it did him some good. And Sussex? Well..wouldn't have been my choice of destinations."

"Yeah...well it was nice to catch up with you."

"You too. You let me know if you hear anything else?"

"I promise."

They both expressed a goodbye and hung up. Sherlock at a beach, now that was an interesting image. Before everything that had happened, before..Reichenbach, he couldn't see the detective ever being at a beach unless it was for a case. And he'd be all dressed up in a suit, coat and scarf. Probably complaining and insulting his curly head off at the poor bugger he dragged along with him. The sun would do him some good, Greg hoped he hadn't stayed inside the whole time.


	4. Are You The Hat-Man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. This chapter is mostly dialogue I'm afraid. Not really sure how to continue and bring him home but hopefully something will come up. Hope you enjoy and if there's anyone interested in betaing this please send me a PM I'll be very grateful.
> 
> Enjoy.

It had been Mycroft's idea, as most things were these days. Sherlock used to think, as a child, that if Mycroft had his way, everything would be his idea. That way things would work as they were supposed to. Of course he also used to think Mycroft was a stuck up prat, but that was still very true. Like his umbrella had been wedged up there and never quite been removed. Which was a hideous image.  _Some brain bleach right about now would be wonderful._  In any case, visiting old museums and castles had been Mycroft's idea to get Sherlock out of the cottage. He'd ignored the suggestions that it could be potentially dangerous, (he'd actually used the word catastrophic). Mycroft had disagreed and told him if he was worried, to wear a wig and glasses.

At which point Sherlock loudly thought about pushing an apple up his brother's nose.

* * *

In the end he had followed his advice. A straight-ish blond wig, with a cap and sunglasses. And found himself at some old castle surrounded by idiots. Though he supposed the correct term would be tourists. Men and women dragging around backpacks, cameras and children. He'd done the tour, pointing out the inaccuracies spouted by the guide in his head, compared to the information in the brochure given at the start. He'd ended up in the poorly themed café sipping a coffee and poking at a suspicious looking slice.

"Excuuuuse me, but are you the Hat-man?" A little voice from somewhere behind him piped up. It belonged to a curly blonde haired being in a bright green dress.

"That's not his name!" Whispered the boy to her right.

"Yeah but I can't pronounce detec...detet anyway. But are you him?"

"I am not sure I know who you are referring to." Replied the detective, sipping his drink and hoping they would go away. People should put a leash on children sometimes. To keep them out of things that didn't concern them. But then he could talk.

"You know, the one who solved all those murders and found things. From the telly. And then you jumped off a roof."

"You mean Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah. Are you him?"

"No."

"But are you though?"

"I said  _no_."

"Yeah but are you?"

"Do you not understand the meaning of the word no?" Answered Sherlock, trying not to raise his voice but he was struggling poorly.

"Yes he does but he's right 'cause you look like him except you have blonde hair. But there's a bit of black poking out 'cause it's a wig." Well, there was nothing wrong with her deductive abilities, only her ability to shut up.

"What's your name?" He decided to try to change the subject. Maybe they'd go away.

"Caroline but I don't like it."

"I never liked my name either." Admitted Sherlock William Scott Holmes.

"My name sounds like an old person's. I prefer Princess Starella. This is..." She whispered at her brother. "Who are you today?"

The boy thought about that for a moment and then smiled. "Roberto."

"This is my brother Roberto. He doesn't like his name either. So he picks a new one all the time till he finds one he likes. Last week he was Margaret."

"Isn't that a girl's name?" Sherlock was oddly amused, a dislike of names was something he could identify with.

"Not if I'm a boy it's not. If a boy has it, it's a boys name. Like if a girl is called Harold then it's a girls name. Unless they're not always a girl, but that's different." Flawed logic, but logic all the same. Children were often more logical than adults sometimes, they just added extra bits.

"That makes sense." The little boy nodded, pleased.

"So are you?"

"Didn't you say this Detective person jumped off a roof? How could I be him?"

"He was reaaaaaaaally smart so he could have had a plan. Jamie's mum said he was a tosser and just killed himself but I don't agree. Cause why would he solve all those things and not get any money?" Well she wasn't wrong.

"But why would he fake his death then?"

The children whispered to each other and then the girl, Caroline or Princess Starella, replied. "Cause of the bad guys."

"The 'bad guys?'."

"Yeah like that one in the papers that tried to steal all the Queen's jewellery. Which was rubbish. It's like in movies, the good guy always has bad guys following them. So he could've faked his death and the bad guys would go, oh well, time to go and do something else now. And leave him alone."

"Why would he do that though? It's not a convincing argument...Why are you even here? Won't your  _mummy and daddy_  be wondering where you are?"

Both children shook their heads solemnly.

"Mummy and daddy don't like each other so they live at different places now. And it was supposed to be mummy's month to have us and she was supposed to take us on a holiday but she's busy. So Aunt Karen took us here 'cause she felt sorry for us 'cause she says daddy's an arsehole." Did these children ever pause to take a breath?

"Then wouldn't your Aunt Karen be looking for you?"

"No." Said Roberto. "She saw this guy and said he's Mr Hotty Hotstuffs and to run along and get crisps." Even Sherlock's parents were better than these children's supposed guardians.

"How old are you?" They both looked under ten. But they could just be very, very short.

"I'm five and he's seven. How old are you?"

"None of your business. I think it's time you ran along now."

"But you didn't answer the question!" Roberto pouted, his eyes growing wide and his lip quivered.

"That won't work on me, I know you're faking it."

"Did you deuce it?" The boy asked hopefully.

"I'm hoping you mean deduce. And no, it's obvious. Now please, my coffee is getting cold. Off you go."

The children increased their sad expressions and turned to walk away. But not before the little girl turned back and tugged on his sleeve. Sherlock put on his best glare but it didn't seem to have any effect. Perhaps it needed fine-tuning.

"We're right though aren't we? 'cause that's why you're angry 'cause you're in dis-guys and you think we'll give you away. But we won't will we, Roberto?"

"Nope. 'Cause it's a secret and daddy says you're supposed to keep those...secret. In a box somewhere."

Sherlock didn't say anything. Telling them to go away didn't work, maybe ignoring them will. They were right, however. Children often saw more than adults expected them to. Didn't he learn that growing up? And they were also right, because as children, no one was going to believe them anyway. Whether or not they thought they could keep a secret under lock and key. He found he couldn't help himself replying.

"What difference does it make? If I was the 'hat detective', why would you care?"

Caroline rocked back on her feet before raising her hand. "Because you're one of the good guys and so I can tell everyone I told them so when you're not dead anymore."

"And they can all go eat their shoes!" Chimed Roberto.

"Don't you mean eat their hats?" Replied the detective.

"Why would they eat their hats?" The boy screwed up his face in confusion.

"Well why would they eat their shoes?"

"Because they'd have their foot in their mouth."  _No..wait that's not how it works...just..nevermind._

"Right, well whatever. Goodbye, now." He gave them a mock wave and took a sip of his coffee. _Eugh, too cold. Wonderful. Now I'll have to order another._

"But are we right though?!"

"Does it matter?"

"YES!" They both chorused.

"...Fine. Yes I am. But you can't tell anyone...under...under pain of death."

The children grew serious, nodding slowly and crossing their heats. Then they grinned at each other, sharing some sort of secret conversation. A voice at the other end of the room sang out their names in that  _oh condescending way_  some adults reserved for children and pets. They turned and waved at Sherlock before running after here.

"Goodbye Mr Not Sherlock Holmes!"

"Sssssssh!"

"Sorry!"

* * *

Sometimes he wished it was as easy to deny who he was to children. To deny who he was to himself, that was a lot harder.


	5. Author's Note

Hello everyone. Sorry it's taken so long to update this. I've been going through some things lately and it's just sapped my ability to write. First I lost my grandfather on the 9th of November. We knew for a week it would happen and he lasted the whole week. His last words to me were that he loved me. From a man who found it literally difficult to speak sometimes, it meant a lot.

Due to that and the christmas season, anxiety played up as well as over stuff, theres more to it but I feel it's important to tell you guys in case you were just thinking I'd given up on the fic. I haven't, but it's just been really hard. That and the mess that was applying to uni. Always make sure you're enrolled if doing it online. Or you'll be waiting months to find out you weren't even enrolled in the whole course in the first place. (it was a massive mess, I had to contact student advocacy and now have to wait till mid year :/ )

A lot of you messaged me about being a beta, I'm so sorry I never got back to you, hopefully my creative spark will come back and I'll be able to get writing again.

Sorry If I got you excited because there was a new chapter. Hope to be back to writing real soon!

YourLoyalBlogger


	6. I Hate Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow... it's been awhile. But here we are. I don't want to drop this just yet, so don't worry. As always your support is wonderful. And yes, a beta would still be lovely. But I don't know how often I can update this what with Uni and a lack of ideas. And the special comes out this year and it's frankly amazing, from what I've seen. If you haven't seen the trailer, go see it now. If you have, carry on and read.
> 
> Enjoy!

Morning came swiftly, much to his annoyance. Someone had opened the curtains, allowing the sunlight to spill out into every inch of his bedroom. He curled onto his side, pulling a sheet over his head. The sun was up, therefore it was too early. Sherlock groaned, wishing he could bury his face into his pillow and fall back into a semi-peaceful slumber. His wish wasn't granted, someone had decided to pull back his sheets and duvet, causing the ex-detective to curl into a tighter ball and push his head under his pillow.

"Not now, dear brother. It's time to wake up. A bright and beautiful day awaits you."

"Tell it to piss off." Was the muffled response.

"Another time perhaps. Please don't make me drag you out of bed. We both know what happened the last time." A tousled head glared up at his tormentor.

"You gave me a concussion!" Mycroft raised his hands in mock surrender.

"You wouldn't let go of the bed, it was hardly my fault. Though if you remember I was grounded for a month." Not long enough. Thought Sherlock, he remembered the incident only vaguely.

"Now if you'll kindly get up, Mrs Hudson has made us breakfast."

"Why are you even here?"

"That, we will discuss, after breakfast." Mycroft strode out of the room, but not before throwing his brother's dressing gown at the bed. Sherlock ignored him, and waited precisely twelve minutes before he heard a NOW SHERLOCK, and then flopped out of bed. He pulled on the gown and slowly, grumbled out of the room.

The room was bright and cheerful, a bustling Mrs Hudson was whistling in the kitchen and Mycroft was sitting in one of the arm chairs, legs crossed, and reading a newspaper. Milton was scratching his briefcase. Sherlock's lip twitched, silently approving. He collapsed into the opposite chair and beckoned to the feline, who jumped at the chance to greet his human. He rubbed every inch of his face onto Sherlock's and the curled up near his neck.

"So lovely to see you again, Sherlock dear. This place hasn't been the same without you." Mrs Hudson had laid a lace table cloth over the desk. She tutted when she turned to look at him and shook her head. Whatever she saw, she clearly disapproved of it. "You like a right mess, and I thought you had been on holiday."

"'m just tired, Mrs Hudson." Not willing to admit he was actually pleased to see her again.

"A nice warm shower will make you feel all the better. Now up you pop, breakfast is ready." She didn't even mutter 'but I'm not your housekeeper' anymore. She wasn't, but her mother hen instincts refused to quit when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft folded his paper and moved to the desk with a quickness, Sherlock didn't think he had in him. It was the perfect time for a weight joke, but he didn't have it in him. Gently removing Milton and placing him on the floor, Sherlock stood, cricking his back and then his neck, before joining his brother. The breakfast was a bit of a smorgasboard. Toast with various spreads, bacon and eggs and sausages. A steaming mug of strong coffee waited in front of him. Mycroft was already filling his plate. Mrs Hudson had also pulled up a chair to join them. Why they didn't just use the table was anybodys guess.

"Isn't this nice, then? Tuck in, Sherlock. You're skin and bones." He couldn't disagree with that. But it was too early for food, even if it did smell nice. However Mrs Hudson and Mycroft both decided to dump bacon and eggs onto his plate. Perhaps one bite wouldn't hurt...

"So, shall we discuss things?" Mycroft hadn't even waited from them to finish, clearly he considered this important. Or maybe he was just extra impatient.

"I just started eating."

"Yes, and how wonderful that is. But while you're here, let's have a nice chat." Mrs Hudson fluttered about removing empty plates and left them some privacy. Sherlock would much rather she had stayed. At least she gave him an excuse to get out of talking to Mycroft.

"Can't it wait."

"I'm afraid not. Now, you're back home in London, have you considered when you will alert the world to your prescence?"

"No." It's too early for this.

"Well I have. I think it should be done slowly at first. Start with a press release." How is that starting slowly?

"Naturally Lestrade is eager to be involved. You will be oblidged to make a few public appearences but I think we can forgoe any interviews." Thank god. He stuffed another piece of bacon into his mouth. He wished he could stuff Mycrofts shut.

"Lestrade has offered to give you some cold cases for you to go over, give the police some insights. He would love to have you as a consultant again, but we both know it might take some time. Even with your name cleared, there are still some conflicts within scotland yard. We'll let things take their course, first."

"Hang on a minute. Who said I was even going to consult with the police again? Or at all?" This assuming air of Mycrofts was beginning to smell.

"I thought you'd be eager to return and forgoe this monotony..."

"Because that worked so well for me last time." Mycroft's brow furrowed, he'd been worried about this.

"It's where you belong, She-"

"I think I can decide that for myself, brother dear." He put down his cutlery and wiped his mouth before swanning out of the room.

Mycroft rested his elbows against the desk and lowered his head into his hands. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. Of course Sherlock would be worried, his whole life had been turned upside down and inside out because of his consulting business. But his brother was born for detective work. He had the mind for it, but anyone could have that, he had the passion and drive to solve the mystery and even if he never admitted it, catching the bad guy and saving the innocent. He'd have taken on cases from worse people if he hadn't have cared. His mind would become stagnant if he stayed too long a moody, brooding hermit.

No, he had to break him out of this and bring back that passion. He'd helped it grow once, how hard could it be again?


	7. You See But Do Not Observe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. It's been awhile. A long while, a hiatus if you will. I wanted to continue this, but wasn't sure how. I don't know how long this one will be, how it will fit in with season 4 or if it will at all. But I did see season 4 and was inspired to write this in my head last night when I couldn't sleep. It's not quite what I started off with but It will do. Not sure if it fits in with the theme I have so far but I really wanted to try a monologue for a bored, slightly off, Sherlock. And there it is. When or if I write another chapter remains to be seen. I'm not well, I've doing tertiary study, I've just moved and am using mobile data as we speak to post this so it's done. (Yup still no internet after two weeks. No tv either.)
> 
> I could do with a beta perhaps, willing to help discuss some ideas. In return I may be able to help someone else with their own fic.
> 
> Anyway, I think this is as disjointed as my head is at the moment (aren't migraines lovely?) so have fun deciphering it. If you liked it and want to see more, please let me know, detail if you'd like.
> 
> Enjoy.

The human brain is a remarkable organ. It allows us to receive, interpret and process data. Much like a computer. And much like a computer we can do this at lightning speed. It's called seeing. The brain 'sees' not the eye. At least not in the way you might think. No, the brain tells you what you're seeing. The eyes simply send it the information. The brain interprets everything, without you even being conscious of it. Which is why you might correctly assume that the lady down the hall is having a bad day. Or that your neighbour didn't get home until quite late the night before.

You just know. And sometimes you're right. When you're wrong, well perhaps you misread the data. You saw but you did not observe. You assumed but you did not deduce. There are tropes in life, just as there are in media. And you can see them, every day. You may not notice it, but your brain does. It files it away for later use. But what if you could train your brain, to tell you what it sees. To tell you why it thinks that old Boris is stealing from the café or Sharleen is having an affair with Rob, again.

You need to look. Really look. No, closer. See inside and out. You can become the user to the interface that is your own subconscious.

Let's take a typical locked room mystery. Close your eyes and picture this for me. A man, let's say of average height and weight. Short hair, neatly trimmed. Not much data to work with yet. We can't quite see him yet. Let's give him a bit more of an image, shall we? His hair is…auburn and his eyes are brown. He's clean shaven and well dressed.

Can you see him now? Good.

He's entering a room without windows. It's small but suits it's purpose in life. A study. But there's no door. Why is that? Immediately your mind might have jumped to a 'secret door'. Perhaps it looks like part of the wall. Maybe it utilises a stereotypical bookcase routine. Or maybe he slid down a pole from the room above. Unlikely. But entirely possible.

Let's go with the the first one. Less clutter. The room is old, but the wallpaper is fresh. So is the door new, you say? Good question, not important yet. It's filled with antiques. There's an old stone fireplace that was stopped up years ago but the pottery above it is as old as it is. There's a painting on the wall of a sailing ship in turbulent weather. Old painting, new frame.

How are we going? Is the picture complete yet?

In the middle of the room is a desk. An old wooden roller desk with brass handles. But there's no keyhole on the cover. Old desk, new technology. Key's are easy, thumbprints and passcodes are a tad harder. The man sits down and slides across a silver square. Thumbprint confirmed. Thumbprints are unique, but he's careful. He's taken extra measures inside the desk itself.

In the centre is a laptop, slim and silver. Surrounding it is a mess of papers, many of them take the form of letters. Most are not in English. We can deduce much from this, if we were to observe the papers themselves but we will have to satisfy our curiosity in another way.

On either side of the computer are raised shelves, featuring at least two small drawers. One of these as keypad. From this, what can we deduce? There's something important inside, and it's something small. Could be money. It's usually money. See, a trope has arisen. Were we to stumble upon this scene in real life, see the drawer has been broken into, given the well dressed nature of the gentlemen and opulent home, money seems reasonable.

But why keep it in the drawer? In this day and age in fact. Why keep it at all? It's all data and code now, isn't it? An older man perhaps, we might assume this of him, but this man, can't be a day over 35. So, not money then. How big is the drawer? Let's make it roughly the size of an iPhone 6. It could be a phone itself. But no, if it's that important you'd keep it close.

So what was in the drawer? And what has this all to do with a locked room murder mystery? Well -

"Sorry?"

"Did you even hear a word I said?" The man grumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes and sitting back down. The woman removed an earbud and asked him again.

"So no then."

"I listened at the start, but I sort of drifted out, if it helps, but mysteries aren't really my thing. I like westerns. And romantic liaisons in far off places. Sorry."

"No, it's fine. I was just defeating the entire point of the conversation anyway. Besides, murder mysteries aren't my thing either anymore." Saw but didn't observe. Idiot.

"I'm really just here to supervise. Like…." Don't say nanny, don't say nanny. "A nanny, if you'd like." Blast.

"I don't need a nanny. Or a supervisor. Mycroft is just a mother hen." The detective scowled and stood up in a huff, arms crossed over the loose flowing dressing gown.

"He seems to disagree."

"He could disagree with a brick wall. And he'd probably win. But I'm a grown man, and I think I can do things well enough myself, thank you."

The woman put down her book and shrugged. "It's not me you have to convince. I don't know him personally, I don't know if anyone does, but he's probably just worried about you."

Sherlock scoffed. "Then he can show it by buggering off. I need space! I tried to tell him that last week. But he thought I looked peaky. I'm pale and have cheekbones, I've been peaky since puberty."

"I think I've hit a nerve. Not really part of my job description. I'm just here to watch and…according to the contract, make sure you do not blow up the building or render it unliveable. But I'm sure we could come up with an arrangement that could satisfy both of us.."

"How much?"

"West End tickets. Two every fortnight, front row tickets."

"And in return…?"

"I'll turn a blind eye now and then. Big brother doesn't have to know if it isn't important."

"….deal."

The woman stood with a satisfied grin and shook his hand.

"I think this is the beginning of an interesting partnership than, Mr Holmes."

"This isn't a partnership, Miss Winter, it's a business transaction."

"Call it what you will. I am satisfied. However may I give you one word of advice before my shift is over?"

"Please don't."

Her face grew soft and serious. "I think you should try to listen to him. He's trying to help you. "

"I didn't ask for your opinion. But if it will put your mind at ease. I do. He doesn't. Good night, Miss Winter."

"Goodnight Mr Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S Should I join the local writers group despite only writing fanfiction? Yay, nay? It's once a month at the moment but they may be restarting the official town writers group if interest grows...

**Author's Note:**

> Was that alright? If you thought so, you know what to do!


End file.
